Not So Black and White
by Miss Forrester
Summary: Serenade is unable to escape the haunting truth that her spark feels nothing, no matter the circumstance, for anyone or anything. She is empty, a lifeless husk. Dreadwing is similarly lost in the disgrace of his liege lord. Confused, ashamed. Betrayed. Will they find solace together, or perish alone? Can they find a purpose in each other, or will their past choices fail them both?


"We hunger in earnest for that which we cannot consume."

Nenia Campbell, _Black Beast _

If there was ever one thing Serenade could be absolutely certain of, without a doubt , it was that she was uncertain of all but the fact that she lived. She did not know _why _she lived, why she had not been left for scrapmetal when Vivace had the chance to save herself, why she still continued to trudge on through this shallow and empty, waste of an existence.

Why she bothered, anymore.

Why bother pretending to care, after all, for a cause whose origins you disagree with?

Why bother to fight for the freedom of a long-dead home?

Why bother to sacrifice her well-being, time and again, the very one Vivace lost her own spark trying to protect, for something she wasn't even sure she believed in?

Why did she continue on without Vivace? Vivace had been her reason, and her rhyme, and the only truth she ever needed to know. Vivace had been her cause, the "why" and the "how" and the "what." The "who."

Vivace had always believed in Optimus Prime, vivaciously, relentlessly, without doubt or question. The Autobot - that was Vivace's cause, not hers.

It was Vivace's reason for living, her fighting spirit, her agenda and her purpose.

But Serenade? She wasn't so sure it was really _hers_.

Everything passed by like a blur. Serenade had felt a great wrenching pain, as if her own spark had been extinguished, when she had watched the blue fade away into grey, cold grey, unseeing, unfeeling, dead. Vivace had offlined forever, joined with the Well of Allsparks, and _she _had lived.

So why did she feel as if _she _had been the one to die?

She felt so empty, so hopeless, so stupid and clumsy and unneeded, a nuisance.

Vivace had always been the brighter shining star, the sharpness and agility and wit that the Autobot cause needed. She was just a mute glow, a whimper, in comparison.

She hadn't shed tears. No, the coolant in her optics were all dried up.

Not once in her long and miserable life had Serenade ever cried.

For no one. For nothing. Because there had been no point, she always reasoned.

No use in crying over spilt energon.

It was a waste of time, of effort, of energy.

But watching Vivace die, watching her smile one last time in that unrelenting attempt to cheer her up, as if she wasn't dying, was just sitting across from her in the barracks, playing a game of strategy, challenging her to _live_, to make it, to be someone -

That was the closest Serenade had ever come to feeling.

Ever come to crying.

All her life, Serenade had been told what was the right way, what was the noble way, what was the thing she should do, what she should say, how honored she should be to take part in such a cherished cause, how she should feel about the Autobot's leader, Optimus Prime, the respect she should hold dear for the other officers, the love and camaraderie she should always practise with her teammates and fellow Autobots.

And she tried. Serenade had never tried harder with anything in her life. Not her studies, not her work, not with keeping her ailing sire online for as long as possible (so that she wouldn't be alone in a war she didn't understand). So she tried. Tried as hard as she could.

And there came a time when it just came to her. Vivace.

She didn't have to force a smile, didn't have to fake a laugh, or scramble to conjure up reassuring words and heartfelt compliments (the way the others could so effortlessly). She didn't have to recount stories to feel like she belonged.

She didn't even have to speak. Because Vivace understood.

Vivace had been assigned as her partner to raid a Decepticon fortress and free prisoners of war. (Among them a few designations that were infamous among the Autobots, but none that she cared to remember. Who cared about them? Who gave a scrap? Vivace was dead, and there was not a single honor for such a grand warrior and firm believer of their cause. "Just another casualty of war," "just another body.")

Serenade hadn't said a single word, didn't protest the assignment, accepted it as any good Autobot should, and waited to be paired up with the mystery partner (whom she didn't care much for - she just wanted to get this over with, just wanted to drink away all coherency in the barracks, wanted to forget that she didn't matter, that she was going to inevitably die for something she had never understood).

Vivace had the most stunning pair of blue optics. Like the clearest energon, free of impurities. Shot right through the wires by a frantic medic in an attempt to save a life.

So clear that she saw right through Serenade's act, the poor thing.

(And she meant _poor thing _in reference to Vivace, not herself. No one should ever have to put up with her own emptiness but her.)

It happened so quickly she almost froze.

Vivace was a magnificent creature. A whirl of blues and whites. Her finish was brilliant, her optics brilliant, her smile brilliant. Serenade felt the wires and nodes in her chasis twisting, choking each other, tearing themselves apart.

She had no idea what to do.

So she tried to smile, like she'd been shown and taught.

But Vivace saw right through it.

"You look as enthusiastic about this partnership gig as I did when I heard about it," the other femme had said, with a bright grin, one that forgave her for it, that said it was okay not to be happy, to feel annoyed, upset, angry, confused, infuriated -

Or to feel none of that.

"Pardon?" she had sputtered, and Vivace had wrapped her arm, larger in size than Serenade's, around the distant femme's shoulders, in a reassuring gesture she had seen the others so quick to share without a second thought (not with her - never with her).

"This is the start of a beautiful friendship. Or relationship," she had laughed, a boisterous sound, one that made her faceplates heat up, something automatic, without a thought, without consideration. It just happened. (That had never happened, before.) "Either way, it's the start of something, ey, Eren?"

She couldn't think of anything to say. (Too much information had been presented to her at once for an immediate reaction. Was she serious? On either account? And a birth-less designation usually presented a close relationship, did it not? They had only just met! How could this person be so certain they would even be able to tolerate each other?)

So she tried to smile, again.

"You should try smiling a little more naturally, Serenade." A gracious comment, one most would take as offense, but for the first time in her life, Serenade understood someone. She knew, without asking, what Vivace meant by that.

_Don't force the gesture. It isn't meaningful unless it comes from the spark._

She didn't have to pretend. Didn't have to force it.

Not with Vivace. And that was how it had began.

Serenade had felt so alive, so willing to fight, for the first five vorns and for hundreds more, if need be. She had never felt so strong, so observant, so cunning, as she did by Vivace's side.

She had a purpose. Finally, at long last, she had a purpose.

Vivace. Vivace of Kaon. Vivace who had once been a warden, who had once been considered for the pits (where the infamous Megatronous had risen up out of the ashes of Kaon's shame), who had never lain with a mech because she devoted too much of herself to the cause, who felt no desire other to make the Prime proud, to make his dreams a reality.

Vivace who had once been a Decepticon warrior, who had once fought alongside Megatronous (er, Megatron) himself. Vivace who was ten feet taller than most femmes she knew, taller than most mechs, too.

Vivace, her partner.

Vivace who spoke of dreams that sparked a similar desire in Serenade, who made the energon flow in her previously lifeless husk, who made Serenade feel like she could do something, that she _would _do anything, _anything_, to make Vivace's dreams a reality.

Vivace, who gave Serenade a purpose.

She lived to darken the skies so that Vivace might shine as brightly as Serenade knew her spark did. As brightly as she did when they whispered in private, every-time Vivace risked a wink in her direction while being scolded by their commanding officers (for forgoing protocol - how could anyone blame Vivace for living so brightly, so free?), who never failed to stay by her side during a battle, annihilating anyone who came too close to her partner (and Serenade gladly, feverishly, returning the favor), who would risk a laugh to let Serenade know that _all is well, don't be afraid, death will never separate us, not now, not ever_ when the odds were looking grim, when they were captured or imprisoned or even interrogated for information.

Vivace, who was the bravery, the honor, the nobility, the camaraderie, the greatness, that everyone claimed of the Autobot cause. Vivace, who _was_ Serenade's cause.

And it all ended with not a bang, but a whimper.

Their squadron had been surrounded by the enemy troops, and Vivace had vowed, alongside the others, to fight to certain death. Serenade swore to lay her life on the line for the cause (Vivace), for the right of all sentient beings (Vivace), and for the honor of the Prime (whom she didn't know and didn't care to know because Vivace was the only force she needed).

But Vivace had taken a shot meant for her. A blow to the chasis. Too much energon, too much mech fluid, not a single medic in sight that wasn't wearing the enemy brand.

She begged Vivace to stay, she begged them to help, but it was a fruitless struggle.

Vivace smiled, told her she was proud of what Serenade had become, and told her never to lose faith. Then, the blue faded away to dust. And she didn't shed a single tear of coolant, didn't scream, didn't dare open her mouth for fear that her own life force would come pouring out.

She just watched. And continued to watch when there was nothing left to see but the husk of an old friend, an old partner, a dream shattered, a purpose forgotten.

She lost her way.

She just continued to watch. And watch. And watch.

Like she had always done. Without a single protest.

Without a single word.

In just a klik, she had lost everything that had ever mattered.

It was ten times worse than losing her sire, because she hadn't felt a single damn thing.

And she should have.

Should have felt something. But she could only feel the same blank hopelessness, the same trudge, the same force of nothingness she had felt at the very moment of her birth.

She knew the energon in her veins had not stopped circulating, knew her spark was still pulsating, but she couldn't feel it. She felt as dead as Vivace. And for a moment, she wished she was. Because she knew her purpose was gone.

So what more was there to live for?

The enemy didn't know what to do with her. Her will was like iron. She would not be budged from her position, continued staring even after the body had been thrown onto the scrap-pile of other bodies, continued to watch the pool of energon on the floor blankly, as if waiting for something.

She watched the floor. They watched her, wary, wondering when she would react.

But she never did.

She never looked at anything but that same spot where she had watched Vivace die.

They shuddered, afraid, unable to understand what they were seeing.

She had no will to fight back, but she would not be moved.

She didn't bother with flinching back when the enemy's medical officers removed her cannons and her blade, leaving her unarmed. Didn't blink when they lined her up for imprisonment.

Didn't recharge. Didn't say a word. Didn't think. Didn't feel.

They prodded her for information, but could get nothing in response. Not even acknowledgment of their presence. It was like her processor was far, far away.

She heard them whispering that she was glitched, her processor was fried. They didn't try to get answers from her, anymore. Didn't bother. One of the medics, a beauty (as Vivace would say) of red, said she was a dead Autobot walking.

She didn't have the heart to correct them, didn't want to say anything.

She just felt so tired, so tired.

They could see it in her optics. She looked ready to drop dead at any given moment.

The medic (she realized he was in charge) ordered that she be brought to his med-bay so that he could grant her the "one great mercy" he knew she wouldn't fight.

But first, he had an interrogation to take care of. Other Autobots had been taken prisoner.

They knew who she was. Recognized her faceplates, asked where Vivace was, if she was okay, what had happened to the rest of the team. She didn't answer.

Never said a word, not even once they realized what had happened and grew enraged, infuriated, upset, downright defiant. The enemy couldn't handle all the outbursts, the sudden surge of power in the prisoners (too understaffed, too inexperienced, too indifferent).

The Autobots escaped, and took her with them, thinking she was just in shock, that it would wear off and she would be able to recover. But she never did. She had died that day when Vivace's optics dimmed for the last time.

There was always someone worrying, someone fretting, even when they should have just given up. She never said what happened, never spoke of it, never wanted to think about it.

And they were too damned kind-hearted, too sympathetic, too compassionate, too polite, to ask. She wanted to hate them, wanted to mourn Vivace, wanted to hate the Decepticons, wanted to feel _something_, but it just wasn't going to happen.

It was difficult to get up every morning and recharge every night.

This continued for vorns. They lost Cybertron, scattered to the galaxies. Her new team never made it. All died in stasis lock on the way there. They never got to open their optics, because they crash-landed too hard.

Somehow, she survived. Somehow, she always fucking survived.

Why? Why did it always have to be here? Why not someone more worthy, someone with life, someone who cared? Why _her_?

They were all surprised. She could see it in their faceplates, even though they tried to hide it. She had survived the impossible, once again.

Optimus Prime said it was because she was stronger than anyone could ever know.

That the will to live was sometimes all it took. He didn't know she wanted to die.

He didn't need to know she had never wanted to live.

Had never felt the will to do anything until Vivace, and afterwards, she never wanted to feel the will to do anything, again. It would hurt too much. This time, she had been lucky.

Next time, she knew she would break. She could feel it coming, in her every aching moment alive, in her every spark-beat. She knew she was going to tear apart, come undone, burst into pieces. But she couldn't will herself to be afraid.

Couldn't will herself to care.

She felt like a spirit, just fading away into nothing.

* * *

><p>It happened so fast she could hardly believe it.<p>

She had just been sent out to scout for an artifact, one of the Iacon relics, according to the others. It was very important that it be found, and she was the best one for the job, said Optimus Prime.

(Despite Arcee's insistence that she wasn't ready, yet, to send her out, instead, or Bee, or anyone, but not Serenade.)

(She knew Arcee did it in good faith.)

(The thought would have warmed the spark had it not been that she felt she had none.)

The Prime regarded her with his cool blue optics.

"I believe it is time we allow Serenade to make her own decisions. It is the right of all sentient beings. I will not guide this cause without extending that same principle to every last femme and mech, every last being, I come across."

Arcee said nothing, then, because what could she say to that?

He was absolutely right.

(But that didn't mean she was any less worried.)

(For Primus' sake, Serenade hadn't so much as said a single word for all those vorns together after Vivace had passed, never done anything without being prompted.)

(Well, at least it was better than before. In the beginning, she had to be _co-erced _into sustaining herself.)

"Serenade," she spoke, the picture of caution, of the need to protect the weak.

The weak.

The victim.

No.

This was the last straw. Vivace had always told her, "Never let them treat you like you're a victim. Never let yourself be the victim, Serenade. Never. You are an Autobot, a warrior, an intelligent femme if I ever saw one myself. You are more than weak, more than small, more than faint-hearted. You are strong. Stronger than you know."

She was not weak. She would not be the victim. All this time, she had allowed herself to stop living, to damn near stop existing. She had allowed herself to fall into a wedge of pity, with no way out but down. No more.

She was done. Serenade was the victim, no more.

She would never again let another decide anything for her. Her life was her own gamble, her own game, her own war. Her life was her own to live or to throw away.

Her duty was to herself.

If she wanted to find a purpose to live, she had to look for one instead of waiting around for it to come to her. She was done waiting. Waiting had done her no good.

Now, it was time to choose. Run, or hide.

Fight, or surrender.

Live, or survive.

She had a spark, a processor in perfect working condition, and it would be a shame not to put all that to good use. If the Autobot cause was not for her, then fine. She would find a cause, a purpose, on her own terms.

On no one else's.

"I'll go."

This surprised everyone around her. She could see it clearly in their faceplates.

"You will?" asked Bulkhead, eyes wide.

Bumblebee offered a good-natured objection. _You don't have to do this._

"I do. I do," was all the strength she had to say, and then her optics found Optimus.

Saw the hope, the relief, the gladness, and knew it wasn't because of the artifact.

He said nothing. He only nodded his helm, knowing this was a moment that none but her could ever hope to understand. "Ratchet, open the ground bridge."

_Is she going alone!?_

The yellow scout was horrified.

Optimus met her optics.

"Yes. This is something she must do."

She moved, one pede at a time, towards the ground bridge, helm held high, optics bright, defiant, unwilling to ever lose anything again. She would not lie down and give up.

Not this time. Not even if Megatron himself held his cannon to her helm.

She would go down with a fight, with a bang.

In glory, as Vivace had taught her, as so many others had shown.

Vivace had told her once, "Live for yourself, if for no one else."

And that's exactly what she planned to do.

But there was someone waiting for her.

She had known someone would be there, knew the Decepticons would never allow an artifact to slip blindly through their fingers.

But she had never seen him before, never heard of him (or hadn't been paying attention), never before observed him in any manner. Vivace had said she was stronger than she knew, but she was not as strong as _him_.

She need not ask. She knew he was strong. Knew it from the look in his optics.

Those optics of amaranth. A captivating pair of red optics. A study, as Vivace would have said.

Despite the strength in his posture, he was not lacking in grace.

Far from it. He stood tall, moved with a fluidity she could hardly begin to comprehend, and he was a stunning blur of steel blue, gunmetal grey, and lemon curd yellow. The biolights lining his body shimmered, a brighter shade of red than his optics, speaking of his alignment long before his optics had.

There was the glimmer of gold against the blue. Decepticon. The confirmation.

But it was marked with the code of the Elite Guard.

His features were elegant. His wings were of a magnificence she feared she would never grasp, pointed out and upward, like the visualization of a great air commander. Horns curved up from his helm, a stunning sight framed by the same steel blue armor that protected the rest of his protoform. The shape of him, the sight of him, the grandeur in the way he held himself, all spoke of something Serenade did not understand, and never had.

Honor. Respect. Esteem.

(Magnificence. Beauty.)

But though it was intimidating, the sight of him in all his glory, Serenade would not lose hope, faith, in that she could do this. She could do this. _I can do this_.

* * *

><p><em>He<em>, however, had not been expecting _her_.

It was not visible on his faceplates, he hoped. (One could never be too sure.)

He had been awaiting a great opponent to come and (try to) take the artifact from him.

The ground bridge had appeared, as expected, but a stranger had stepped out.

He had known someone would come, sooner or later, knew the Autobots could not afford to lose another artifact. Their war hinged on the retrieval of such artifacts of power.

But he had never seen her before, never heard of her (or hadn't been there to do so, and had never known to ask), never before observed her in any manner.

He had once heard Skyquake say, "There is no beauty beyond that of Cybertron's skies."

But the skies of that world, and of any other, would never compare to _her_.

He took one look at her optics. Saw the fire burning inside them, such a fire that he was startled, because it was the same look his departed brother always wore. One of determination, of the will to persevere, of the refusal to back down.

No matter the odd. Despite the fact that she was hopelessly outnumbered (did the Autobots disregard the Eradicons as a force of any kind?), hopelessly outgunned, and, quite possibly, no match for a Decepticon commanding officer.

She did not have the confidence of the yellow scout, nor of the blue femme, nor of the former Wrecker. But she glowed with her own pride, her own life.

And yet he could read no further into it than that.

He couldn't pull his optics away from hers. It was like a force, a pull, one he couldn't resist, or begin to ignore. Those optics like the Earth's sky, like the clear mist rolling across the shores of a pristine beach, open and closed, both at once. Telling all, confiding nothing.

A study, as Skyquake would have (so articulately) put it.

Despite the pulchritude of her fine features, she was missing something.

Certainty. Understanding of the self. A purpose, he surmised.

(And would be interested in discussing if it were not the enemy, and if it were not impolite to ask of a stranger to divulge such sensitive information.)

Though she lacked certainty, she certainly did not lack in spirit.

Far from it. She stood proud, helm held high, optics unwavering, and she moved with a silence, a grace, he wasn't sure he fully grasped. How could someone so puzzled present as such a puzzle, herself?

She was a radiant beauty of coral red, silvery white, and navy blue.

There was the shadow of black etched into the red of her shoulder. Autobot.

The confirmation.

A warrior in training. Either that, or she had not been given the proper ceremony that placed her as a warrior instead of as a scout, amongst all the chaos on Cybertron.

(Or perhaps she was something else, altogether.)

(Of course, he could hardly ask. It wasn't in his place to do so.)

Her features spoke of a charm, a spell in its own right. The wheels lining along both arms, and above the heel of both pedes, were shined to an attractive hue of black. The care she took for them showed in how the spokes glimmered under the bright sunlight.

Her servos were flat at the palms, thin and almost wiry in the fingers. Poise screamed from the way she held her chin, not unflattering, but indeed charming, as he had initially suspected. A humor glinted in her optics. (One he had yet to discover.)

The armor of her helm, red against white, with audio receptors tucked neatly beneath the edges, did nothing to hide or disturb the magnificence of her crown.

Because it was indeed how her armor was shaped.

The top of her helm formed into an elegant three-pointed crown of silver and red, biolights of blue running alongside the tips, the crown (of her helm), and down her arms to her palms, down her chasis to her stabilizing servos. To those small, noiseless, quick pedes.

It was the likeness of a Queen.

Of a Prime.

_Solus Prime_, he mused.

The shape of her, the sight of her, the unfettered courage with which she held herself, all spoke of something Dreadwing was sure he had misunderstood his whole life, yet hoped he would soon regain.

Prowess. Wit. A Dream.

(The will to live, to fight, to hope.)

But though it was enchanting, the sight of her in all her regality, Dreadwing would not lose his own will to fight, to win this one for the sake of his Lord Megatron, for the sake of his fallen brethren, of his brother. He would win this. He would swallow back the fascination, remember his post, his purpose.

He could do this. _I will do this_.

* * *

><p>And so, it seemed she had forgotten one little factor. She had never fought save to protect herself, and perhaps a stray teammate, since the day she had watched Vivace die.<p>

And though she felt the same fervor as before, there was something missing here and there. Practice. Rhyme. The reason was there, but not the purpose.

It felt as if she were fighting with heavy armor.

Too slow. Not smart enough to see this or that move coming.

But seconds ticked by, and she began to see, began to learn.

He was large, yes, but not clumsy. He matched her move for move.

They were not so much battling for their cause (or lack thereof) as they were dancing around their opponent, trying to glean as much as possible, trying to understand each other without words.

And then she got the better of him. He was distracted. One klik was all it took.

He went down, and hard. She took a hold of the artifact, slipped it right out of his grasp, the ghost of a touch that was gone as if it had never been there, and he felt it.

The trembling that began in his fingers and made his very spark beat so hard, so quickly, so loudly, he was afraid, for a moment (and no more), that she could hear it.

Whatever had gotten a hold of him, suddenly?

She called for backup, as the Eradicons had begun to advance once their Commanding officer was down. She fought back admirably, keeping the waves from the artifact, and then she was handing it to the blue femme.

Who was astonished by the sight before her. That much he could tell.

Why? Why were her own teammates so surprised?

Should they not have known of her greatness before sending her into battle, alone?

"What," he heaved, trying desperately not to sound the fool. "What is your designation?"

She turned to look at him, as if she had known he was speaking to her, despite having her back to him (a show of arrogance he would have taken advantage of - well, had he not been struggling to stand after the stun of her actions).

At long last, he had spoken, she realized.

And it was to her. Not to Arcee. Not to Bumblebee, or Bulkhead, or even Optimus Prime.

To _her_. His voice was strong, words articulate, coated with a strange lilt she could not place (but found she did not mind - and, in fact, she daresay felt it could have been one of many of his charms).

"Serenade."

Befitting of such a femme.

_Serenade_.

He wondered what the word would feel like on his glossa, yet dared not try it aloud.

Not in front of everyone else.

They may have been alone, together, for just one klik, in a separate world from this blasted war and all its loss and pains, but now, they were back where they belonged. Autobot and Decepticon.

Nothing more, nothing less.

"I am Dreadwing."

She grew still. "Dreadwing," she tested, not so afraid of speaking it aloud as he believed she ought to be. He admired her for this show of bravery, of shamelessness.

(Or perhaps he was the only one to take this encounter so-to-the-spark.)

It was oddly befitting of such a magnificent creature, the designation.

_Dreadwing_.

"I look forward to when we may next meet, Serenade," he offered this single truth.

She had made for a worthy opponent. She learned quickly, and was just as fast on her pedes.

Serenade was a femme most would underestimate, he knew. But he had learned better than to ever commit such folly. Serenade was not weak, she was no victim.

She was an Autobot warrior. No, an Autobot _artist_.

And he looked forward to creating art with her once more.

(And by that, he meant a rematch, one that would hopefully draw out to show the length of what they had both learned over the vorns.)

(One that would allow him to begin to meet the challenge posed by Serenade.)

They had not fought, he believed, but begun a dance.

A dance he knew to be dangerous, ill-advised, but a dance he could not walk away from.

She enchanted him, her in all her mystery, and he enchanted her, him in all his glory.

And they would meet again. One way or another.

They both knew it. And instead of dreading it, both looked forward to it.

He could see it clearly in her optics, the optics that were so honest, and he knew it only mirrored the sentiment he was sure showed in his own.

"As do I, Dreadwing."

There was nothing more to be said. The Autobots retreated, artifact in hand.

And he retreated through a groundbridge with the rest of the (remaining) Eradicons, empty-handed. But though he had disappointed his one true Lord, he felt that he did not find the day was entirely lost. His spark, for once, was not empty. Not as it had been after losing Skyquake. It was beginning to fill, to warm.

To wonder.

To ask questions, to offer no answers but a fascination he could not dispel.

But how could he explain this to his Lord? This new source of curiosity in no way excused his failure. He knew that his Lord would say he should have eliminated such a threat.

So he did something he had never thought he would do, sunk to the level of Starscream.

He omitted something from his Lord.

Omitted it gladly.

(Albeit a bit guiltily.)

So, that was that.

_Serenade, hm?_

His interest was piqued.

* * *

><p>The curiosity was all but killing them. She could see it all written clearly in their optics. How had she burst into a situation where she was surrounded and somehow still handed them the relic? How had she managed to pry the relic from Dreadwing, one of Megatron's best warriors, and most of all, how had she managed to impress Dreadwing in such a manner that he extended to her a courtesy he normally reserved for Optimus Prime?<p>

They all wanted the story, but she found that she wasn't interested in telling it.

Something inside her, something reminiscent of a sparkling's stubborn and possessive will, didn't want to give up the one moment of glory she held. Didn't want to give up what rightfully belonged to _her_.

She may have performed the deed of an Autobot, but her meeting with Dreadwing was of her own personal business. She really wished they would just understand this and leave her be. They were relentless.

Especially the young ones.

"So, did you kick his tailpipes before or after you got the relic? Or, wait, did you somehow trick him into giving it up? Did he hurt himself with one of his nifty explosives?"

Smokescreen.

"You do realize, of course, that Dreadwing isn't one to throw a match. Especially not on the behalf of a stranger. Not for any reason, despite whatever handicap you all seem to believe she has."

Ratchet scolding (correcting) Smokescreen.

"So why did he lose, then? I mean, it's the first time she's fought in vorns, right? How could she possibly have beaten Dreadwing when even Optimus can't?"

Smokescreen demanding answers. An explanation.

(One she couldn't explain in words. One she could never begin to understand, herself.)

How _had _she beaten him? How?

She had not been prepared. Smokescreen was right.

Did he throw the match, after all?

No. She remembered the light in his optics, the fire, the heat in the way he looked at her.

He would never throw a match. They both had that in common.

(Along with whatever exactly had sparked between them.)

(It couldn't have been her imagination... could it? He felt it, too... didn't he?)

So had she really been able to best him?

* * *

><p>Only because he had been distracted momentarily.<p>

That was the reason he had lost the relic. Dreadwing went over and over the details of the match, of the unexpected meeting between them. Serenade and himself, that was.

He turned the details over in his processor until he thought he might lose himself in the memory of those fierce optics. Of the unbending will to live, to fight, to win.

He hadn't felt or seen such dedication since Skyquake had passed.

Soundwave was the very essence of dedication, but not of the kind he had seen in Serenade.

It was not a dedication to the Prime, he realized. No, but to _herself_.

It was nothing selfish, nothing corrupt, nothing meaningless or malicious.

It was pure. Her intentions had been pure.

She wanted to live, so she had.

She wanted to fight, so she had.

And she wanted to win. More than anything else.

This fire had distracted him. And so she had. She had won.

And now he was pacing the cavernous hallways of the Nemesis trying to understand an Autobot. Trying to understand his own fascination with her.

What made her so special? What made her any different from the blue two-wheeler? Or from the yellow scout, the ex-Wrecker? What made her so different from Optimus Prime?

What made her so _special_?

Nothing, he realized. Absolutely nothing.

And somehow, that was enough for him. No, _more _than enough.

It was intoxicating. Alluring. He was so accustomed to this title or that history as a great commander, to this occupation or that training, to this reputation or that rumor.

But he knew nothing about her. There was nothing to set her apart from anyone else.

She could have just been another drone, another recently-enlisted.

A blank canvas, an empty slate, waiting to be filled.

Waiting to make art, to make something of herself.

She wasn't special, but she could be.

She was nothing because there were so many things she could be.

She was a story waiting to be told.

He had never met anyone so... so...

_Serenade_.

* * *

><p>"... so although you may not believe in her, she's more than proven herself."<p>

Arcee. Angry, defensive, proud of her.

Oh, Arcee. She felt something then. It forced her to pause, to think it over.

Panic. What was wrong? Out of place?

There was a heat in her optics, a stinging pain.

A pain in her sparkchamber, a tightening.

She analyzed this, tried to remember the feeling. She couldn't recall ever having felt this way before. Not when Vivace had passed, not when her sire had, never.

She was crying.

She was happy.

Happy someone cared.

Happy _Arcee _cared.

But Arcee had _always _cared. She knew that much to be true.

Why was this time different?

Because she hadn't felt anything before, that's why. It was simple enough to know.

But she didn't understand. Why did she feel _now_?

Why did she care enough to take note of Arcee's camaraderie?

Because her spark wasn't frozen, anymore.

Some time ago, some whispered that her spark may have frozen on her way out of her bearer. It had been an arduous journey for her sire and bearer, one her bearer did not survive. And yet somehow she had lived.

They say it made her stone-cold. They say death had stolen her life before she even took a breath. How had her spark thawed? Why did she suddenly care?

Then, she was laughing.

Laughing, and crying, and screaming, on her knees.

She was feeling, and it hurt so much, but she didn't want it to stop.

Vivace was dead! Her sire, sweet and tender, was dead! Her bearer dead because of her!

How could she have ever ignored this?

The tears were spilling faster, the pain almost too much to bear, but she relished in it.

Relished in all that she had missed.

And then she realized that somewhere inside her, she knew why she was feeling.

And there was something warming her sparkchamber, making it feel full to the point of bursting, as if she could die right there. A warmth that brought the energon to her cheeks, set her metal aflame, made her laugh and cry harder and brought with it a sense of hopelessness, of hope, of despair, of joy, of delight and madness and anger.

She was feeling because of Dreadwing. Somehow, with just a look, he had loosened the wires holding tight over her spark, keeping it in place. Now, it wouldn't stay. It wanted to sprout wings and fly far away, and she was torn between running _from _and running _to _him.

"How?" it was a whisper, after all her screaming and crying and laughing.

(All of which had startled and frightened the others, for its abruptness.)

Optimus was standing before her, optics not unkind. She saw the reflection of her joy in his optics. There was fear and doubt in the optics of the others, worry, concern, love.

She had taken them all for granted.

But never again. Never again.

She was done living as a lifeless husk.

"Arcee, Optimus, everyone, I know I have never said this before, but I love you. I have never loved anything more than I love you all at this moment. I know it must have been the pits living with me, dealing with how I allowed myself to rust away, but I promise you that I will do all I can to make sure that you all know, even if we were to lose this war, even if we were to die, what matters is that we have love, and each other, and Megatron does not. And perhaps that is the only truth, the only victory, that matters."

All was silent around her, the others taking time to digest what she had said, what had just happened before their very optics, taking time to understand the miracle.

The first to speak was Miko Nakadai, the human girl.

"_Whoa_."

Then, everyone reacted at once, all talking at once, asking her questions, Arcee rushing to make sure she was alright, Ratchet taking in her vitals to make sure she wasn't experiencing a glitch in the processor, Smokescreen whispering furiously with Bumblebee in the back, Bulkhead asking who had screwed with her helm and threatening to do something similar in return.

(And she was so overwhelmed by their care that she burst into tears all over again.)

But Optimus knew. Optimus understood. There was nothing wrong with her, nothing glitched in her processor. She wasn't close to death, or dying. In fact, she had only just come to life.

And he had a suspicion of who was to thank for that.

* * *

><p>They had both said they would be looking forward to when they should next meet.<p>

And neither were lying (surprisingly, on both accounts).

* * *

><p>It was another artifact. The Skyboom Shield.<p>

(Or so Ratchet had explained.)

He had emphasized how important it was that the Autobots make sure it never reached Decepticon hands. Er, servos.

Arcee had been nominated, as she was quicker and lighter on her feet, to run into heavily guarded Decepticon territory (a stake-out of the premises where the artifact was discovered to have been buried) and retrieve the artifact.

However, she would not go alone. She refused. And explained why.

"I may be able to get in, but with the artifact in hand, if I ever reach it without having to deal a single blow and thus alerting the 'cons to my presence, how am I supposed to get out without a struggle? I can't go in alone. I pride myself on my combat skills, but I'm no Optimus. And even he's not invincible."

"She's right. Arcee could wind up surrounded, with no way out. Best case scenario, they take both the artifact and her - alive. Worst case scenario, lights out for Arcee, and one artifact gone, in the hands of the Decepticons. If we send her in, she might just do their job for them."

Bumblebee.

"So how about we lay the smack-down on them? Kick some 'con tailpipe, get what we need, and bridge back to base before backup arrives?"

Bulkhead.

(To which Miko demonstrated with a mighty kick to Jack Darby's shin.)

(He was none too pleased.)

"Because there are simply too many of them, Bulkhead. Even if we were to charge in with guns blazing, it doesn't necessarily mean we'd get what we came for. Chances are, there are so many of them, that by the time we finished one batch of Vehicons, there'd be another one coming in fresh from a groundbridge, and we don't have the numbers to spare for our own "backup". And by then, energon depletion would be colossal. There'd simply be no energy left to fight. In which case we lose the artifact, die, and/or both. And even if we came back here alive, artifact in hand, there'd be no way I could muster up enough of our supplies, which are quickly dwindling with each passing day, to make sure we didn't all pass out at once."

Ratchet refusing to do something so incredibly reckless for the sake of heroisms.

"Exactly," was Arcee's way of agreeing. "Which is why I want to nominate someone else to come with me."

"Like who?" Bumblebee, curious.

"Serenade." This time, it was Rafael to spoke up, to everyone's surprise.

They all watched Arcee for confirmation. She didn't have to say a word.

Her faceplates said everything.

"Serenade?" Their optics all flickered to her frame, standing still at the edge of their circle.

Some optics made quick work of suddenly appearing interested in other sights (Bumblebee and Bulkhead) while others were brave (daring) enough to hold her stare.

Smokescreen. Arcee. Ratchet. Optimus.

The children.

(Well, only because one of them had suggested her name in the first place.)

"Serenade?" asked Smokescreen once more.

"I don't know if that's such a good idea, Raf," the scout's chirps were hesitant, quieter than usual. "I mean, she's still recovering. From... from..."

"Whatever it was that happened to her," Smokescreen filled in with an air of confidence.

(Not quite understanding how rude his implications were.)

"Smokescreen," began Arcee in a chiding tone.

"No, he's right this time, Arcee," it was Ratchet. Stern. Unbending.

She saw the decision in his optics without him having to say it.

She was going nowhere beyond a vun of this base, if he could help it.

"But she's proven herself, hasn't she?" the blue femme insisted.

"I'm honored by your concern, everyone, but honestly, I can handle this. I can handle _myself_. I know I may not look the part, but I've been fighting this war just as long as Bumblebee, if not longer," she decided to speak up at last.

Her words had a sort of unintended effect. They all appeared mystified, as if hearing it for the first time. This always happened, now. Every time she opened her mouth, Primus himself may well have spoken, for they froze as if they couldn't believe their audio receptors.

(And most likely, that was exactly the case.)

"But the last time you went out," Bulkhead began to protest.

"I know, Bulkhead, and I'm sorry for worrying you. I suppose it was just something I owed to myself. It was time I came clean. But I can promise you that I will never again allow myself to be the subject of concern for this team."

There was doubt in his blue optics, but he said nothing.

It wasn't enough.

Because he wasn't the only one in doubt. Even Arcee was having her moment of question.

Second-guessing her own decision to bring Serenade along.

"We are fulfilling a purpose here, everyone. An important one. One that will decide the fate of not only Cybertron, but of Earth, as well. We cannot afford to place restraints on ourselves, to discourage able-bodied Cybertronians from making their own choices and deciding their own fates. I am able to help, and so I will. It is my right as a sentient being. It is my _duty _as a member of this team, as an Autobot. And if I have any say in this, which I believe I do, then I will fight this planet, and for ours, until I take my very last breath. Because that is what I vowed to do when I took up the coat of arms. And I have already taken far too long to remember this as it is. I would rather put the past behind me and let it guide me to the bright future then to let it step on my pedes and stop me from going further, as it has for vorns."

There was no arguing with her, they could all see it in her faceplates.

She was going, whether they agreed or not.

And truthfully, no one there wanted to dispute her very valid argument.

After all, the value of an Autobot was the duty of presenting each and every sentient being with the freedom and choice to be and do as they wished. Denying her that right would be to deny their very foundation.

And no one was quick to jump onto that runaway train.

(Not to mention some were moved by her powerful words.)

(Bumblebee, Arcee, Bulkhead, Smokescreen, Ratchet - hell, even Optimus was moved.)

"So, when do we start?" this was spoken directly to the others, a smile to Arcee to assure that she was certain of her decision. Arcee's mask of caution withered.

She returned the smile with an, "Whenever you're ready."

* * *

><p>And so there the two of them stood. Face to face, once more. (At last.)<p>

It had been three long cycles for the two of them, three cycles without once seeing the other's faceplates (except in dreams and passing fancies). But their processors would not let them forget.

It brought Serenade great curiosity to realize she looked forward to meeting with the enemy.

It brought Dreadwing great fascination to notice this.

Both said nothing. Arcee had gone ahead to secure the artifact. Although their medic proved a great distraction to the two-wheeler, she had only engaged the enemy for a few moments before finding an opening to neutralize him.

Then, she continued on. No doubt she had reached the artifact by now.

Serenade found herself wondering why Dreadwing (or his teammates) hadn't called for backup. Of course, most were unaware of the intrusion until recently (when he had found her), but didn't they suspect that, at the very least, she hadn't come alone?

No. She heard their whispers. They believed she had come on her own to secure the artifact, as she had done before. (And others still whispered she had not come for the artifact, but for Commander Dreadwing. As he had come for her.)

But what part was a rumor, a lie?

She knew why she had come.

(Or thought she knew.)

Did he?

"Dreadwing."

"Serenade."

She felt the change in her faceplates before she realized she was smiling.

And a brilliant smile it was.

He knew he should feel threatened, wary, of the fact that his enemy was feeling chipper under these circumstances. But he could only think of how lovely that expression was.

And then he, unable to prevent himself, was returning the gesture with a grin of his own.

Her sparkchamber felt warm, just as it had before, at the very thought of him.

But this time, he stood before her, the only distance between them a few feet of rough, dry sand. And he towered over her, but she felt no fear, no threat.

Only relief.

It astounded her, gave her pause.

What in the Pits could ever offer relief in the presence of an enemy?

Did he feel the same...?

She dared to venture a look at his faceplates.

He remained unreadable. His expression was solemn once more, as if he had sobered up from the momentary delusion of seeing an old friend.

Still, she felt it was only right to tell him of what she had discovered.

He had done this to her, _for _her.

Whether he was aware of the effect he had on her or not, she felt he deserved to know that because of his presence, she had begun to feel once more. That she cared about something.

Anything. Everything.

"I must ask, Serenade."

_Why is it that just as I begin to think of you, we meet once more? _

"Ask away."

And she meant it.

"What if I inquire about something of import?"

He wasn't planning to, but for the sake of playing Unicron's advocate...

(And curiosity.)

Was she as willing to lie to her cause for his sake as he was for _her_?

No, he reprimanded himself. Only I am such a fool.

Her way of response was a tilt of the helm.

It was his cue to continue. She was intrigued.

This was good. He would not have her feeling bored by him when he felt nothing but utter fascination. It would be degrading and humiliating and would only further plant the seeds of doubt in his helm about what he was _doing_, at _this _point.

"Did you come knowing I would be here?"

There was a flicker of emotion across her faceplates, to his utter surprise.

One he could not decipher.

"No. But I am glad to have found you. I have anticipated this."

"As have I." Relief flooded his spark. So he had not been mistaken.

There was truly something shifting beneath those still faceplates.

Something changing in her spark, as it had in his.

She offered him a quirk of her lips, a raise of the brow. "Are you not going to defeat me in battle, Commander Dreadwing? In honor of your Liege Lord?"

He paused, having not been expectant of such a forward invitation.

"I do not believe we stand before each other with the intention to spill energon for either of our causes, Serenade." He could not have been more honest with an Autobot.

Or anyone, for that matter.

"Then why do you believe we stand before each other, Dreadwing?" she dropped the pretense of his title, having found the notion unfamiliar, alien to her.

Wrong. It seemed wrong, sounded wrong, felt wrong.

So she forgot about it.

(And relished the rawness of his designation on her glossa.)

He took a step closer, without air of confidence, only sincerity in his faceplates, a determination in his optics. The Eradicons had long-fled the area to pursue Arcee. She was yet to receive a message that the artifact had been secured.

(And should be concerned, should go to aide Arcee, but the blue femme had made her instructions very clear. Stand guard, make certain that the Commanding officer does not interfere in her efforts. And so she did just that. Pose as a distraction, like a good Autobot.)

Of course, this also had everything to do with the fact that she felt inclined to accept his company, however morally ambiguous or questionable it seemed.

There was the ghost of a touch along her faceplates, beneath her chin, across the wires in her throat. She feared he would choke her, or at the very least pull out the wires, but he did not. He simply allowed himself to touch her, exvents labored, as if he had been in arduous combat all cycle long.

His optics were dim, unreadable. But there was a flare in desire in her spark, in her servos and pedes. Her processor felt light, non-existent. Why was he doing this?

What was his end-game? Where did he hope this would lead?

He took another step, now inches away, and his fingers, light, hardly there, so none could accuse him of cavorting with her, with Serenade, the enemy. This thought should have reminded him of his place. And it did.

But the reality only fueled him further.

For a moment, both their sparks froze. They realized what this looked like, how the situation could turn for the worse if either party knew of their actions, how this condemned them both.

"We have much to discuss, Serenade, and now is not the time nor the place."

"What do your propose we do to remedy the situation?"

They had made their decisions. However quickly their sparks beat, they had to ease the burning in their sparks. So he leaned forward, his lips barely brushing her audial receptor.

And gave her numbers. Then, she saw only a world of black.

The last thing she felt was the ghost of a promise lingering across her cheek.

* * *

><p>Serenade mused that the sand looked like glass, shimming under just the right angle of moonlight. Earth's moon was a truly marvelous spectacle.<p>

As were the geysers. The numbers he had provided were coordinates, she had come to realize. She had awoken back at base, fussed over by Ratchet and Arcee, who apologized a thousand times for her terrible intuition of leaving Serenade behind to deal with the commanding officer.

"I hadn't thought they'd send him again," Arcee had admitted.

But Serenade had waved off their concerns, truthfully confiding that he had brought her to no harm. She did not, however, confide in the contents of their discussion. There was no need to tell them. Not when she knew they could never understand.

(She barely understood it, herself.)

Night had come, three cycles later, and, just as promised (as they had finally allowed her some peace of time and space for herself after the incident), she followed the coordinates to meet him among the dunes and geysers of a place the humans referred to as the Black Rock Desert. It wasn't too far from the Autobot base, from the spot where they had first met in Nevada.

And he was there. Waiting. Posture just as straight as when she had first laid optics on him, faceplates wistful, a longing in his optics as he gazed up at the skies. Not for the first time, she wondered what was on his processor.

Then, he turned to face her, presumably hearing the sound of her footfalls, and all her thoughts fell away. Nothing existed but Dreadwing.

She seemed to produce a similar effect. He looked positively mystified.

"Serenade." His voice was dry, as though he had been depleted of his energon resources.

Her own glossa wanted to swallow itself.

They were alone. For perhaps the first time, there were no surrounding enemies, no artifacts to retrieve, no end-goal in mind, no one to report back to. It was just one mech and one femme, no alignment, there for personal reasons.

Or, a personal reason.

(That is, to understand their companion.)

"Dreadwing."

It seemed as if this one word, his name spoken from her lips, destroyed something.

Fractured his sense of control.

Of sensibility.

He took a step forward, and then another. Then, he paused, blinked those burning red optics, such beauties as they were. As if he could hardly believe she was there, that this was really happening.

"Come."

It was not a question, nor a request.

They both needed this, and he knew it just as well as she did.

Her stabilizing servos almost failed her, but she managed to cross the distance.

She wondered vaguely what she would do once she reached him, whether she would stop before him or keep walking right off the cliff behind him. Time was meaningless.

So was gravity.

She felt she was floating through a dream.

And then, he caught her before she could fall.

Just as Vivace had done so long ago.

"Serenade," he whispered.

"I don't - I can't -"

"I know," his tone was firm. He lowered his helm, fingers brushing along her cheek, and then his faceplates were so close to hers that she could feel his every exvent against her optics. Clouding them. No, cleaning away the grime.

She saw clearly now. Everything before had been a farce, a joke, in the face of this greatness.

In the face of Dreadwing.

"I can't leave you again," her throat felt constricted, the wires coiled tightly.

"Then you must know that I cannot, as well."

"What is happening to us? What will happen -"

"What is happening is what needs to happen. It's better not to let our doubts, mistakes that they are, cloud what we know to be right. I may not know much about the grace of my fallen Lord, I may not know the future of the Decepticons, of this war, of our home and this one, but I do take comfort in knowing that I truly believe I cannot live without knowing you."

Fallen Lord? Future of the Decepticons, of the Autobots, the war, their home...

None of it mattered, anymore. Dreadwing was right.

All futures, all truths, were uncertain, changing like variables, fleeting as words on the winds.

But this faith, this desire, this longing, it was all that kept them tethered to existence.

To each other.

There was no such thing as black and white. There was only faith. Only purpose.

Only the self and its own path.

And she chose Dreadwing. She would choose him in every life, this one and the next, and twenty afterward. Optimus Prime was not her purpose. The Autobot cause was not her purpose. Cybertron was not her purpose.

Not her faith, not her truth.

"You are my purpose," she said, so calmly, so clearly, unmistakable.

He felt his spark shudder.

"As you are mine."

And as his hand closed over hers, as his lips finally met hers, her optics dimmed, and the world fell away around her. She could see nothing but the black of the night, and the white of the moon.


End file.
